Chapter 48
Amaal stood on the tarmac, the lights around her turning on as the moment of arrival came nearer. The wind was biting, the air thin at this height. She glanced around — nothing but dark, even on this small base.
“All the officers here,” she said to Captain Husain standing beside her. “They know Iram is coming on the plane. Won’t that be a problem?”
He shook his head, standing with his feet apart, hands behind his back.
He was Atharva’s most trusted man. She had driven with him from Srinagar to Kargil last evening, and he had not spoken more than five words to her on the way.
If she hadn’t been working and constantly on calls, she would have gone mad.
It reminded her of the old days of Samar, and some of the current days too.
It wasn’t as if Samar didn’t talk. But he went through rotations of sweetness and care with tender words and gruff words that suddenly made her startle. She could never expect one kind of behaviour from him nowadays. But it was still early days in his recovery. She wouldn’t worry about it yet.
The walkie-talkie at Captain Husain’s hip made noises. He grabbed it and listened. Spoke some military jargon, then listened again.
“They are landing in 5.” He set it back. Amaal’s heart began to thump. This was it. Finally. Once Iram touched Indian soil, she was safe. It had all come to this. The last month had been a nail-biting thriller that had turned into horror last afternoon.
Atharva had made enemies out of every ally of his by accepting a doctored invitation from the Azad University of Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, using favours and political manoeuvres to get clearances from the Union Home Ministry, Foreign Affairs and Defence.
He obtained the clearances and flew out with Begumjaan and Yathaarth immediately, leaving behind a simmering tension.
Kashmir was still burning over an undercurrent of anger towards the CM who had let the ‘martyr’ Usama Aziz be killed, and let the Indian army in again to control the depleting law and order.
Their trust in Atharva was shaking, as the pseudo-liberal human rights narratives painted him as the military dictator who was the biggest mistake of Kashmiris.
From a developmental hero, he was suddenly the Pundit again.
As his Press Secretary, she had done everything in her power to counter those narratives. But she hadn’t been able to control them. The damage was done, and was now eating into their government’s two good years and countless great policies with high tempers and swaying emotions.
In all of this, his trip to PoK had come as the final nail in the coffin.
Or that’s what she had thought when Atharva had departed India yesterday morning.
Until, yesterday afternoon, when she had been informed that he had been targeted with a missile outside a mosque in Nagar.
And the martyr had gone and silenced the entire attack to the point of altering the note of his tour.
Not even the Home Ministry of India had been informed.
Amaal dreaded the repercussions.
He had come out unscathed for now, physically, but this was going to come to haunt them. Sooner or later, it would.
A tiny light flickered in the dark sky, and she saw it descend. Amaal breathed in the suddenly crackling icy air. The hiss of the plane became louder.
Iram was found. And for Atharva, that had offset everything else.
For Amaal, it had to be a balance between the emotions of this heightened moment and the optics of this government.
Moreover, she wasn’t going to be swayed so easily.
She had many bones to pick with Iram. How could somebody just walk away like that?
Amaal saw the plane descend, knowing she would find Iram alone on it.
It was a plane off radar, purposefully sent from a blacked-out airstrip in PoK to this small installation in Kargil.
She didn’t have papers to chronicle her departure to justify her arrival.
She was alone, having just met her son for the first time.
That is why Amaal was here. In spite of her anger and the hundred things she wanted to unleash on Iram, Amaal was here to first and foremost take her home.
The plane landed with a loud roar and taxied on the short strip, the white body gleaming closer and closer until it came to a halt in front of them.
A minute later, the stairs rolled open, Altaf standing at the helm. He stepped aside, and Amaal got her first glimpse of Iram.
This couldn’t be Iram. The woman had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but the gauntness in her face was naked. As if half of her was gone. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide and deep-set. Her hair was whipping across her face and she did nothing to stop it, staring glassily at them.
She slowly descended the four steps, her balance shaky. Everything Amaal had wanted to spit at her was forgotten as Iram’s feet touched ground. Amaal began walking, then sprinting, then running. Their eyes met, and Iram was running too, but not as fast.
“Oh, my god,” Amaal caught her in an embrace. Iram’s body felt small, fragile, like it was disappearing. She did not respond for a second. And then her arms came around Amaal.
“I’m so sorry,” Iram buried her face in her shoulder.
“It’s alright.”
Iram’s breath came heavy, like she was holding herself back from crying.
Amaal rubbed her back. “Come on.”
“Captain.” Altaf’s voice startled them apart.
He handed over a pack of documents to Captain Husain and took Yathaarth’s medicines and milk bag in exchange.
That was the alibi, the CM’s private plane returning to pick up his infant’s bag because the baby was sick.
Not the best one, but the only one they could come up with at such short notice.
“Madam.” Altaf addressed Iram. "I am returning.”
“Come back this afternoon,” Iram said to him, her voice thinned.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come, let’s go.” Amaal pushed the shawl tighter around Iram and led her to the car, an old man, her father’s butler, Rahim, tagging behind.
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“Feeling better?” Amaal asked, passing her an extra towel as she patted her face dry. Iram nodded.
“Come, sit.” Amaal led her to the small, round breakfast table in the room. It overlooked the mountains of Kargil, the sheer curtains filtering enough moonlight inside the room to keep their vision clear with just a small lamp.
“I am making kettle coffee, you want hot water? There is no lemon…”
“Amaal?”
“Hmm?” She stopped in the process of tearing open the instant coffee sachet. Iram was looking at her with the blankness of a lost animal.
“I am sorry.” She said again.
Amaal kept staring at her. Iram did not even blink. Something was wrong with her.
Amaal abandoned the coffee and crossed the room, taking a seat on the chair in front of her. She took Iram’s hand in her own and startled. She rubbed it. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I am always cold.”
“But this is not normal cold. The fire is blazing, should I add more wood…”
“Let it be…” Iram muttered. Then her eyes widened. “Samar?” She gasped, horrified. “Samar. How is he?”
“He is fine.”
“Fine? How long… Allah. One day before the babies were born… where is he?”
“He came home a few weeks ago.” Amaal sandwiched her cold hand between her own. “He is recovering.”
Iram went silent. She gazed outside blankly for such a long time that Amaal thought she had gone to sleep with her eyes open. Then she shook her head slowly. “Atharva was right…” she whispered. “We owe him three lifetimes. He saved us all, and I couldn’t even save one…”
“Shhh.”
Iram’s face turned to her, a bitter smile on her face. “How are you?”
“I am fine.”
“With Samar…?”
Amaal hesitated, then nodded. Iram’s eyes smiled, even though her mouth was wobbling.
“How are you?” Amaal changed the topic. “What has happened to you?”
“I thought they both died…” Iram looked into her eyes. Amaal felt that pierce her. And probably Iram saw it there because the next moment she broke down. “Oh, no…” she began to weep. “How will I do this, Amaal? My son lived.”
“Shhh.” Amaal leaned over and pulled her head into her chest. Iram cried. “I am not ok, Atharva is not ok, the world around us is not ok. Please forgive me, I’m sorry… I thought this was the only way to become ok for him without the kids… I didn’t know, I didn’t…” she hiccuped.
“Shh, shhh…” Amaal rubbed her back.
“What have I done? What a mess I made behind me.”
“Quiet now,” Amaal patted the back of her head. The sun was rising outside and the soft, mild rays were ringing the alarm of their journey back.
“You are not angry.” Iram pulled back. “Why are you not angry? Atharva is angry.”
Amaal smiled. “I was angry. But I also knew you wouldn’t have done this without a reason. I am not angry anymore.”
“You forgave me very easily.”
“Not so easily.” Amaal got to her feet. She padded to the bed and unzipped the tote she had packed.
From its depths, she pulled out Iram’s most prized salwar kameez.
The orange one that she had gotten stitched out of a fabric Atharva had brought her once like a fool of a man in love who didn’t know what to bring a woman.
Amaal shook the top open and flung it to her — “Show me how old Iram looked and maybe I will forgive her.”
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